Banged Up
by hevaann
Summary: PORRIDGE  BBC  Lenny is taking his prison education very seriously


_I do not own __**Porridge**__ which is a darn shame. I almost feel bad for putting Ronnie Barker through this, as he is the greatest comedian to have ever walked this earth, and quite safely the most missed. _

I watched the dip above me in the dark, as ever amazed that he hadn't fallen through and on top of me; he may not be the size of Crusher but Fletch isn't exactly small. His breathing was too even and his body too still – he was pretending to be asleep. When he actually sleeps he tends to bray like a donkey and move about more often than army brats change houses. In out, in out he breathes. Finally I can't stand it and whip my legs out of the bed, grab the towel from the bed post and hang it over the spy hole in the door.

"You're denying them entertainment." Fletch points out, propping himself up on one elbow, "If you're going to beat me up I at least deserve an audience."

I ignore him. "We need to talk."

"We talk a lot – in fact I was talking to you only today; spouting words of wisdom."

"It was hardly a two sided conversation though like."

"It didn't need to be – I have enough wisdom for the two of us." And he turns over and faces the wall.

"Actually, I'm referring to the incident last week and your...helpful suggestions then."

He flinches for a second; I only noticed it because I was expecting it. He is calm and collected again so fast that it might never have happened.

"Ah, you mean when I told you how to get past the screws with a pillow you have cleverly commandeered."

"Yeah well, there are not many men who get pregnant Fletch."

"First time for everything my son, first time for everything." He gets down off his bunk and splashes his face with cold water. I take a deep breath.

"I mean when you jerked me off." And there it is, _out in the open_.

"That was necessary to your prison education." He argues, not turning round: not looking at me.

"I was just..." I try and get past the lump in my throat, "I was just wondering if I should return the favour." He turns and rolls his eyes in an attempt to be light hearted.

"You don't wanna go saying things like that Godber, or people will think you're open for business and you'll be entered more times than the National Lottery. And hair like that certainly doesn't help your image." He adds, running his hand through it. I have to remind myself to breathe.

He's so close now I can see the lines on his face; the memories embedded there. I hold tight to the string of hope, the balloon floating above us in the air.

"I don't want just anyone," I admit, although I'm shaking, "I just want you." And his face changes and I think he's about to dock me one, but instead the hope balloon bursts and he smashes his mouth onto mine; hard and cruel. Then with one hand on my back he spins me round and lowers me to the floor.

"I'm just saying that I don't want a poof in this cell."

"Right you are Fletch." I acquiesce, trying to suppress a grin as I wonder how much more gay you can get than lying on the floor under a man, his bristles so close they ghost against your cheeks making them tingle, and your cocks pressing against each other, separated only by the thin material of prison issue pyjamas.

Then he looks at me and suddenly I see him; the man he is underneath all that bravo and cocky wit, and when he penetrates me it's like he's swung the doors of the prison open and escaped to another world. And I'm in so much pain I go numb, and then the pain is not enough and I want more and more and more and then he hits that forbidden spot and I come all over him and me and the floor. And just when I think things can't get better he empties himself in me, and if it were possible I would have orgasmed all over again at the feel of him.

I move my head slightly and drop a light kiss on his neck, and then I wait. There's silence for what seems like forever and then he withdraws and looks me in the eye and the Fletcher I know is back.

"Of course," He says, as if picking up in the middle of a conversation, "This kinda thing involves specific training – you can't be going getting lessons anywhere." I suppress a smile: it's his way of saying I'm _his_ and no one else's.

He climbs back up into the bunk and I crawl into mine, all the time watching that space on the floor, remembering, remembering, remembering.

"And if you snore," He calls down, "I will dock you one." And things are back to normal, but better.


End file.
